


Harry Potter and Dumbledore's Promise

by RosYourBoat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer after sixth year, Harry is back at Privet Drive as if nothing had ever changed. Alone and depressed, even the prospect of being able to use magic on his seventeenth birthday held little appeal. With a direct connection to the Dark Lord's mind, very little appears to be worth celebrating. However, with a flash of phoenix fire, a roll of parchment, and the appearance of a strangely familiar black cat, Harry's summer begins to look very different.</p><p>This fic is unfinished, and will remain so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and Dumbledore's Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "Harry Potter and Dumbledore's Promise" was written in June of 2010. It is unfinished, and will remain so.

On the evening of July 31st, Harry Potter sat in a rickety chair by the window of a small, nearly bare room and watched the half-moon travel sedately across the sky. The perfectly manicured lawn of the Dursley home was dipped in blue shadows and he tracked the slow wheeling of the stars in the sky with his raw, tired eyes. It was rare now that he was able to sleep when Voldemort was asleep also. The visions always made him more tired than when he went to sleep.

Harry was thinking about nothing. He had become quite good at it by now, though it didn’t seem to help the way that Snape had seemed to think it would. But since he wasn’t thinking about anything, it took him much longer than it normally would to notice the growing blot of darkness in the sky headed in his direction. He opened the window and backed away, making room for the flock of owls that entered clutching strings wrapped around small packages. Harry felt the ghost of a crooked smile cross his face.

“Sorry, you lot,” he said, his voice soft and hoarse from misuse. “I don’t have much for you, but there’s some water in a bowl over on the desk.” One by one, the owls lovingly nibbled on his nose or earlobe as he removed their burdens before hopping over to take a drink and soar out the window. They knew that they couldn’t linger at this house without risking being thrown out by an enraged Uncle Vernon.

Once Harry was alone, except for Hedwig, who had returned from hunting long enough to ensure no owls tried to encroach on her territory—namely, Harry—he sat on his cot and slowly unwrapped each gift. Kids from the DA had sent him sweets and a heavily defaced picture of Umbridge that included a bunch of centaurs or Weasley fireworks that chased her portrait self out of the frame every few minutes. The Weasley’s sent their usual care package of food and fudge.

 _“All our love, dearie,”_ read the note inside. _“Stay safe and we’ll see you soon. Love, Arthur and Molly.”_

The Weasley twins sent a package of their more dangerous and useful supplies in case he ever got in a scrap and Charlie had sent him an item that looked something like a pair of detached sleeves made of thin, flexible dragonhide that went up to the shoulder and tied around his back.

 _“If I’m right—and I think I am—then you’ll need this soon,”_ was the only information provided with the gift.

Bill sent him a spelled set of lockpicks guaranteed to get him through almost any lock. Ron and Hermione had gotten him a joint gift of a new school trunk with three hidden compartments. It wasn’t as large or nice as Moody’s, but it was useful nonetheless as his trunk was getting to be quite battered by now. Remus sent him a new journal with protections spells on it and a small, wooden whistle meant to be worn around the neck. It was a wolf whistle, his note explained, and would momentarily slow normal wolves and werewolves alike with its piercing shriek that was inaudible to human ears.

 _“Don’t worry, cub,_ ” read the note at the end. _“I’ll see you as soon as I can. We’ve abandoned the Old Place since we have to assume that it’s been compromised, but we are already beginning to set up a New Place. Things are going to start moving quickly now—I know that you know that more than anyone else out there right now, but I want you to_ **stay low** _and_ **stay safe!** _We aren’t going to let V win; I promise. I love you.”_

Harry read over the words three more times, savoring the obvious love the werewolf felt for him and yet frustrated by his words at the same time. If Remus thought Harry was just going to sit prettily on his hands like a good figurehead, he was seriously mistaken. Harry had fulfilled Dumbledore’s wishes and this was the last day he was ever going to spend at the damned Dursley’s. One way or another, Harry would not be here the next day. If that meant that he had to dodge Order spies and Death Eaters alike, then so be it. He would not sit idly by while Voldemort took over the Wizarding world.

Just then, a tap at the window alerted him to a latecomer attempting to deliver their package. He opened the window and removed the cylindrical package from the owl’s talons. While the owl drank and rested for a moment, Harry removed the stopper from the package and drew out the rolled-up parchment inside. He unrolled it and his breath stopped.

It was a large portrait of Dumbledore in full color. He was wearing periwinkle blue robes that matched his twinkling eyes. He sat in a chair near the hearth in his office. At his elbow was a small table set with tea and lemon drops. Fawkes perched on the arm of his chair and Dumbledore was stroking his back with one hand. The other rested over a book on his lap. It was as if he had invited Harry to a “little chat” and was pleased that he arrived on time.

Harry’s hands began to shake in earnest. It was rendered in oil, his stunned mind noted, and the amount of detail was exquisite. Nothing was left out; from the strange contraptions on the bookshelf that Harry had destroyed after Sirius died to the reflection of firelight off of the Headmaster’s half-moon glasses. It was stationary; completely devoid of magical animation. He was surprisingly grateful for that, considering how much he missed the meddling old man. In the corner of the portrait was Dean’s signature.

“My God,” Harry breathed unconsciously, squinting closer at a detail he had noticed in the background. “Is that—?” He groped for his wand, suddenly remembering that it was his seventeenth birthday and he could do magic now. “ _Lumos_.”

Just as his wandtip lit, the room exploded in fiery light. Harry dropped the portrait and his wand hand raised automatically before he registered the pure singing that filled the room. It was a song unlike any he had heard before—making his heart ache and beat strongly at the same time—but there could be no mistaking the maker.

“Fawkes!” Harry cried as the phoenix made one short circuit around the room before landing on Hedwig’s perch and fixing him with a sharp gaze. Harry took a step forward and paused, hardly able to believe his eyes. He had seen the phoenix burst into flames over Dumbledore’s coffin and no baby phoenix had emerged. From what he had understood, that had meant that the phoenix had essentially “died.” And yet, here he was—unmistakably, undeniably Fawkes.

Harry hesitantly walked over to the phoenix and stroked along his breast with one trembling hand. Fawkes cooed and stretched his slender neck to lay his head along Harry’s. Fawkes’ feathers were thinner, softer and less organized than Harry remembered, almost as if the phoenix had become a fledgling again.

“Fawkes, what are you doing here?” Harry asked softly. “Dumbledore’s…” he swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Dumbledore’s gone. He’s not here anymore.” Fawkes pulled back to stare at him with one intelligent eye. He piped a single note and a sheaf of parchments popped into existence in a burst of flame at Harry’s elbow. The young wizard jumped before sheepishly taking the papers from where they hovered in the air. He swallowed again when he saw the familiar slanted scrawl.

“ _Dear Harry,”_ Dumbledore wrote.

“ _If you are reading this letter, then you have just turned seventeen years of age and I am not longer with you. I had hoped that I would not have to write this at such a critical time in your life and in the Wizarding World, but alas! Much like the restlessness that is felt at the beginning of a new journey, the knowledge that your life is ending soon is equally unmistakable. I hope that you do not grieve too deeply; you are one of the few who know just how much I anticipate the next great adventure._

“ _My only regret is that I must leave you at a time when my passing will bring great power and confidence to Voldemort. I know how you are feeling at this time, Harry, and I advise you to not give in to your fear and impatience. There is much to my death that you do not know and you must discover these things before facing Voldemort for the final time. Upon the event of my death, I have left you with several things that will be useful to you in your quest and the instructions for claiming them will be owled to you soon._

“ _You may have noticed that Fawkes has delivered my missive to you. As you have no doubt noticed in the past, he is a strong-willed creature with a mind of his own and possesses a fierce loyalty. He comes and goes as he pleases, but it will become obvious quite quickly whether he has decided to stay with you. If he chooses to do so, I only ask that you treat him with the respect and care and love that he deserves. Like most phoenixes, he prefers nuts and berries as a rule, but I will leave it up to you to discover just which ones he is partial to._

“ _My final message concerns my dark, sullen friend who will join you at the Dursley home for the summer (I hope that you have at least followed my advice on this matter). I will only say that I have asked him to watch over you for a time beginning on your birthday and that he has reluctantly agreed. He is named Somber and I trust him and his judgment with my life—and my afterlife, should it come to that—and I hope you will come to do the same. I would suggest that you research the needs and habits of shadowcats, for he tends to neglect himself while focused on a goal. Many wizards and witches fear and misunderstand the gifts and personality of the shadowcat, but you will find that he is the most loyal and staunch companion you could ever hope for. Take care of him._

“ _Tomorrow morning, Fawkes has been instructed to take you and your belongings from Privet Drive to your new home—should you wish it to be. I dearly hope so, as the place hasn’t been properly occupied for years. Ah, I’m beginning to ramble. An unfortunate side effect of old age._

“ _Harry, I know with a certainty I can’t express that you will succeed in this battle against evil. The qualities that you possess cannot be found in Voldemort’s frozen heart and that will be his downfall. Stay strong, true, and kind. Stay close to your friends and family; Voldemort cannot defeat you with them as your support. Dear boy, you have been like a grandson to me and I love you as if you are one of mine._

_Until our next adventure together,_

_Albus_

Harry had to remove his glasses and wipe his eyes several times when it became too blurry to read. “Dammit, Dumbledore,” he swore, sniffing. “You knew. You bloody well _knew_ you were going to die, you sodding old coot! Hell, you probably knew bloody Snape was the one to do you in. Buggering beard biter!” Harry sat down hard on his cot, breaking off his tirade when it squeaked loudly in protest. He listened intently for sounds of his uncle snorting and bellowing his anger at the noise he had been making, but there was no break in the snores coming through the thin walls.

He cast a sound-proof charm on the walls just in case and flopped back on his bed in exhaustion. His mind was whirling with the words and hints Dumbledore had seen fit to drop him in one letter. When his mind started to settle enough to ask questions about what he’d read, he picked up the letter and read it again. And again. And a fourth time, committing it to memory. Finally, he set it down.

“Somber?” He said out loud to himself. He hadn’t noticed anyone (or any _thing_ , as Dumbledore’s letter seemed to suggest) stalking the Dursley house. Were they able to get in? Perhaps the wards were preventing this “Somber” from entering. Harry hoped so. The last thing he needed was Dumbledore trying to tell him what to do from the grave. There was sudden movement in a previously barren corner of the room and Harry grabbed his wand. A sleek, slender feline slunk out of the shadows, ears tensely cocked and eyes intelligent and intense.

Harry stood and backed away, keeping his wand raised defensively. Studying the animal’s shape, he realized who this must be. “You must be Somber,” he said. “I’ve never seen a shadowcat before, but I’ll eat my potion’s book if you aren’t one.” The cat’s ears flicking and his lamp-like eyes fixing on him was the only reply.

Black as pitch, with eyes as green as emerald, the small cat stalked forward and stopped a distance away from Harry’s bed. Fawkes trilled at the cat, who responded by flattening his ears indignantly and hissing, revealing sharp white teeth. Fawkes gave the musical equivalent of a chortle. Reassured by the phoenix’s obvious acceptance of the animal despite its suspicious demeanor, Harry awkwardly nodded to the cat and moved to sit on the floor. He had been taught that most magical animals deserved respect and that putting yourself on an even plane with them helped show your respect.

“Er, so you probably know that I’m Harry Potter,” Harry began. The cat sat on his haunches and gave a very obvious, very human-like roll of the eyes and proceeded to wash his paws. “Right, OK,” Harry said, feeling incredibly moronic. “Not one for idle conversation, are you?”

The cat ignored him. Harry figured that was probably a normal feline response. “You know, you’re smaller than I thought you would be; I mean, for someone that Dumbledore sent to babysit me.”

The cat stopped washing and bristled defensively with a glare. “Oh, he didn’t say as much in the letter,” Harry continued, not really sure why he kept talking to the cat who obviously didn’t like him very much. “But Dumbledore has—had—a way of forcing people to do things they didn’t want to do with people they didn’t want anything to do with.” The cat made a sound like a snort of agreement.

“You know, it says in the letter that Dumbledore only asked you to watch me for a little while after my birthday.” Harry pointed out casually. “It’s my birthday now. You don’t have to hang around here anymore, especially since I can use magic now. It’d be a waste of your time. I’m sure you have other things you need to do that are way more important.”

The cat paused and gave him a narrow-eyed look. Harry tried his best to look innocent. Somber turned up his nose and stalked over to plant himself under the stand Fawkes was perched on, his tail twitching bad-temperedly. Obviously, he meant to stay. Fawkes made another chortling sound. Harry blew out a loud breath, annoyed. The last thing he needed now that he was on the hunt for Voldemort’s horcruxes was a babysitter sent by Dumbledore to keep him out of trouble. And somehow he doubted that he could slip this sly guard as easily as he might the human ones.

“Well, we might as well sleep. It _is_ the middle of the night, after all,” Harry said shortly. He stood up and collected his wand and the portrait of Dumbledore from the floor. He gave it one last look before rolling it up and putting it back in the cylinder packaging it came in. Then he said goodnight to Fawkes—Somber had disappeared already—and rolled himself into his thin sheet on the cot and slept.

* * *

 

Somber watched the too-thin boy sleep for a short while from the safety of the shadows before he turned and left the house that had become just as much his prison as it had Harry Potter’s. Unlike the young wizard, however, the shadowcat could—and did—leave whenever he needed. He  _did_  have important things to take care of that could not be avoided at times, and yet he had spent enough time with the boy to know the Dursley home like the back of his paw.

When he had first agreed to watch over the boy as Dumbledore had pleaded, he had expected to spend the weeks in a drudging boredom that came from watching young human males indulge in typically unimaginative hedonistic activities. He had been correct about the boringness of the task, but much to his surprise, he did not spend the hours in the shadows of the household watching an average teenager squandering his summer vacation. Instead, he saw the brooding, contemplative shadow of a vibrant child wasting away under the negligent care of his spiteful guardians. He watched the boy grow thinner and paler despite the many hours a week he spent tending to the horse-faced woman’s gardens. He watched the “accidents” that happened to occur when Harry and the whale-like father or son were in the same room, often leaving Harry with injuries he nursed for days after. He watched the boy sleep like the dead one night and then wake up screaming and sobbing the next three, which inevitably resulted in the whale-man bursting into the room and thrashing Harry until he screamed for a different reason.

Somber was not stupid. He knew that the average human family did not behave the way that the Dursley’s did. He also suspected that Harry Potter himself was not acting in his normal way. From Dumbledore’s request, he had assumed that the old man cared about this boy, but hadn’t guessed that that depth of affection might be returned. Somber knew that Dumbledore was dead now and Harry Potter was grieving.

Had Somber been less vigilant, he might have fallen for Harry Potter’s attempt at getting rid of him, but although Somber lacked many qualities, imperceptiveness was not one of them by any stretch of the imagination. He had seen enough of the boy’s troubled life to know that he needed help and guidance, now more than ever. Otherwise, he was likely to get himself killed.

* * *

 

His own screams woke Harry only hours later. He clutched the sheets, disoriented as the image of a beautiful little girl’s arm being torn off was still imprinted on his eyes. He had barely been able to recognize his surroundings and the fact that he was awake before the door burst open with a resounding crash.

“Again with that bloody racket! Boy, if this wasn’t the last day you’d stink up my house I would’ve strangled you weeks ago!” Uncle Vernon bellowed, taking no notice of the new packages or brightly-colored bird in the corner. His entire enraged attention was fixed on the thin boy sitting on the cot. Harry barely had enough time to stutter out a protest before his uncle grabbed him by the throat with one meaty fist and swung him across the room like a feather pillow. Harry, who was skinny and weak from neglect and grief, crashed against the wall and slid to the floor like a limp doll.

Vernon was on him within seconds, driving his (thankfully bare) feet into Harry’s sides over and over again, cursing and spitting. Harry could only curl up to try and protect his major organs. Suddenly, there was a great squawk and a screech of anger, followed by a shower of red sparks and flame. Vernon shouted in surprise and pain, stumbling away from Harry and waddling for the door as quickly as he was able. The door slammed shut just as loudly as it had opened only seconds before.

Harry waited a few seconds to make sure his uncle was gone before he let out a thin, strangled sound of pain. He carefully wrapped his arms around his torso and pressed his forehead to the floor, his eyes shut tightly. His breath came quick and shallow. He barely noticed the soft click of talons on the hard wood floor but flinched when a warm feathery body sidled up to him and leaned carefully against him.

Fawkes cooed to him and Harry felt the immediate effects. His breathing eased, his heart slowed, and his muscles relaxed slightly. He felt better immediately. He opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of wide, startled green eyes beneath his cot before they were gone in a blink of the eye. Harry struggled to his feet, waving off the phoenix fluttering around him like a worried hen.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, gingerly lowering himself to the cot. “I’ve had worse. At least he wasn’t wearing boots this time.” He pulled his wand from under his pillow and cast _tempus_. It was 5:53 in the morning. He doubted that he was going to get anymore sleep, so he pulled on his clothes and started packing. He left Hedwig’s stand for the birds to use but cleared out the hidden space under the floorboard, which the Dursley’s had never discovered during the five years he had been in that room. He packed some of Dudley’s castoffs despite how much he loathed them because he didn’t know where he was going or if he might need them. He packed away all of his gifts from the night before. He used the restroom and took his toothbrush. He would have to wait until night to retrieve his battered old trunk and some other things from his childhood in the cupboard under the stairs.

When he was finished, it was 6:01 in the morning.

Despite the fact that it was his last day at the Dursley home (a knowledge that burned quietly in his heart with relief and some impatience), the day was much the same as any other day during the summer—except, perhaps, for the anticipatory feeling throughout the house. He thought that he had even seen Aunt Petunia smile at him once, but then decided it was a trick of the light. Dudley still pushed and bullied him, Vernon still glowered and cuffed him, and Petunia still treated him with annoyed disdain. He was still given a crust of bread and a cup of water for breakfast and he still went out to weed the yard because it was a Wednesday. He still avoided Dudley’s gang and he still cleaned the house when Vernon went to work. When Vernon came home, he ate a bowl of watery soup with a crusty roll in his room with Fawkes and Hedwig.

Hedwig was awake by now and he fed her some of his roll with some water and owl treats, talking quietly to her and stroking her feathers as he did every night. Hedwig was his salvation and his sanity. Without even one other creature in the world to show him care and affection, he would have gone mad or worse. He had brought a variety of nuts and even an apple for Fawkes, explaining that he couldn’t get much for him now. Fawkes ran his beak through Harry’s thick black hair in understanding and ate the almonds first. He left the walnuts for last but eventually ate them (Harry later learned that Fawkes was just being polite. When he tried to feed the phoenix walnuts later, Fawkes roasted them to a chalky ash). He pecked at the apple and shredded it with his talons while he ate, leaving a pulpy mess that Harry had to clean up later. Harry decided to cut the apple into easily-accessible slices next time.

After dinner, he spent the passing hours until dark doing what he had been doing for the past two months. He sat at the window and thought, mostly about the strange circumstances surrounding Dumbledore’s death and the repercussions that would ripple throughout the Wizarding World. He hadn’t heard anything from friends or Order members alike, but his visions every week kept him updated on what Voldemort was up to, at least. And so he thought.

Finally, he heard the sounds of the Dursley’s preparing for bed. When all was dark and silent except for Dudley and Vernon’s snores through the walls, Harry crept silently down the stairs. With a quiet _Alohamora_ , he opened the cupboard door and removed his old trunk. He crawled inside, marveling at how small it had become since he was last confined there—although he was still able to fit inside comfortably, so he hadn’t grown that much. He pulled on the string to light to bare lightbulb, but unsurprisingly it wasn’t working. He lit his wand instead and sat on the tiny cot squeezed into the corner, looking around his “home” for the last time.

In the Dursley house, this truly was his home. It had been his ever since he could remember and no one else had ever come inside it (they were all too big). Even after he had been moved to the room upstairs, he had constantly been reminded that it was “Dudley’s second bedroom” and he had thought of it that way. In some strange, twisted way, he knew that he would miss this tiny cupboard. It held something of his childhood that he would never get back again.

Finally, he reached under the cot next to the door and removed a sheaf of papers, brushing off cobwebs and spiders as he did so. Then he took the army soldier with the missing arm from where he had hidden it in a pile of his old clothes under the shelf with the cleaning chemicals. He lifted the mattress of the cot and removed the soft, pale blue blanket that he had kept with him ever since he could remember. It was one of the only kindnesses Aunt Petunia had given him; the baby blanket he was wrapped in when he was left at the Dursley doorstep. Harry held it for a while, realizing that he could no longer feel the last stubborn traces of a warming charm on it. The spell—which had to have been cast by someone powerful if it lasted as long as it had—had died with its castor. Dumbledore.

When he left, he took down the wrinkled paper on the inside of the door that proudly proclaimed “Harys Room” in crooked crayon. He had written it the day he had learned what his real name was in school. Feeling strangely sad and sentimental, he went back up to his room with his trunk trailing behind him. He was startled to see Aunt Petunia standing outside his door. She stared at the floating trunk and gave him a hateful glance before ignoring it.

“Aunt Petunia?” Harry whispered, confused. He didn’t invite her into his room.

“Boy, I hope you have no plans of returning here,” she said primly. “Our lives have simply been horrible since you were dumped on our doorstep.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on coming back. My life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses here, either,” Harry said.

Petunia drew herself up, offended. “Well! I’ve never seen so much disrespect! After all that we did for you, you nasty ungrateful boy! We took you into our home out of the goodness of our heart at our own expense! You should be lucky we’re not demanding reimbursement—any lesser family would!”

Harry felt a rushing in his ears. He took a step forward, hardly able to believe what she was saying. “Re- _reimbursement?_ For what? For starving me, beating me, locking me up in a bare room with only two bathroom breaks a day? For hating me so much that I didn’t know what my own name was until I went to school? I’m grateful for you giving me the safest place I could grow up but you haven’t done me one kindness since then, Aunt Petunia.”

Aunt Petunia worked her mouth, but no sound came out. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes were glinting with frozen green chill and a dangerous green light curled around him. She cowered away from him. Harry took a deep breath, unable to believe the emotions he’d just vented. He took a step back and his magic faded away. “You’d better go back to bed before Uncle Vernon wakes up,” he said dully. “I’ll be leaving tonight and hopefully I’ll never see you again.”

He opened the door to his room and motioned his trunk in but paused when she grabbed his arm. He stopped and she quickly released him, gripping her robe instead. “Potter—Harry. They know where we live, don’t they? The people who killed my sister. Are we safe?” And now Harry knew the real reason why she had come out to talk to him; she was frightened.

“There is a war starting in the Wizarding World right now. The blood wards that protected your house are gone now and they know where you live,” he said coldly, wanting her to know how serious the situation was, but he softened when he saw fear turn her face white. “But yes, I think you’re safe. The evil wizards are after me, but they seem to think that it wouldn’t affect me if you were killed. They’re wrong, but…” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Things might get worse here in the mu— _normal_ world, but they’ll be so busy that I think they’ll leave you alone.”

Aunt Petunia was wringing her hands. “I wish my wretched sister had never been born a witch,” she hissed. “It’s brought nothing but pain and destruction to all of us! And _you_ , well, you’re just as bad if not worse for bringing all of this to our doorstep. You could get us all killed!”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m trying my best to help win this war so that we’re all safe, including you!” But she wasn’t listening anymore.

“You’re dead to us, you hear me, boy? If anyone comes asking for you we’ll tell them that Harry Potter is dead!” She said fiercely, her eyes wild. Harry’s heart twisted painfully and he flinched. He tried to straighten his shoulders.

“Good night, Aunt Petunia,” he said wearily and shut the door behind him. He leaned against it with his eyes closed, listening as she walked away. He shook his head with a sigh. Hedwig and Fawkes watched him silently from their perch but Somber was just as absent as he had been since this morning. Harry wondered if the cat had decided to leave after all.

“Are we ready to go, Fawkes?” Harry asked. “I don’t know if I can stay here anymore.” The phoenix trilled in agreement and swept his tail in Harry’s direction. Harry shrunk Hedwig’s perch and put it in his trunk before tying the trunks together and holding one of the handles tightly. Hedwig perched on the trunks and Fawkes landed on Harry’s shoulder. He wasn’t as heavy as Harry had expected, but his talons were painful where they dug into his shoulder. Just as the familiar lightness covered his body, Harry saw a black streak bound from the shadows. He winced as the cat latched onto his leg with sharp claws, but before he could do anything about it, fire filled his sight and felt like he was simultaneously compressed and scattered like ashes. It was wholly different than apparating, but far more enjoyable.

A split second later, the fire vanished and he was standing in a fine sitting room. He barely took notice of his surroundings or Fawkes launching off his shoulder as he hopped in place and gripped the demon cat, trying to pry it off his clothes. The cat yowled and came away with a rip of clothing—not to mention skin—and Harry yelped in pain. Somber twisted from his grip and streaked away, vanishing in the shadow of a table. Harry grumbled several choice words that would have made Hermione slap his arm. As it was, Fawkes just chortled at him and Harry glared.

Finally, he noticed where Fawkes had taken him and his mouth dropped open. They were in a sitting room lit with low burning lamps that somehow managed to look small and comfortable while simultaneously being open from huge windows. Bookshelves lined the walls that weren’t filled with windows and thick, soft chairs circled the cold hearth with tasteful rugs beneath on the wood floor. A door set unobtrusively in the corner led to an office. A set of double doors led to a large kitchen with a dining table and a well-stocked larder. A short hallway opened onto an entrance with a front door, a coat rack and closet, a bathroom, and a set of stairs leading to three bedrooms.

The house was small but well-furnished and homey and Harry could guess who it belonged to. After all, who else would have a coat rack that spoke in an American accent or a mirror in the loo that showed you what you would look like with a full beard and mustache? When Harry breathed in, he could almost smell Dumbledore’s tea. He left through the front door to escape it.

He was confronted by the dim view of a path curving gently from the stone porch off to the left where a forest grew thick and close. On the right, the ground dropped off abruptly about twenty meters from the house. Harry could hear waves crashing distantly below and the smell of the sea was strong here. He approached the cliff edge carefully, hardly able to believe it. He had never seen the ocean before and when he saw the moon burning brightly over the slow swell of deep blue water, his breath caught.

“Great Merlin,” he breathed, stunned. He fell in love. The spot would soon become his favorite place to think or escape and when he slept that night, it was in the bedroom closest to the sea, where he could hear the waves through his open window.

Harry woke the next morning to the sound of an owl hooting from the nightstand, directly into his ear. He sat up with a jolt, already reaching for his wand, when he recognized Gringott’s seal on the package the owl carried. He swallowed hard, guessing what was in the package. The owl nipped his finger and was gone. Harry slowly got ready for the day, showering and dressing with the package on his mind. Finally, he took it down to the kitchen with him and opened it at the table. Fawkes trilled a cheerful greeting, alighting on Harry’s shoulder while Somber seemed to appear from nowhere to watch the proceedings with an intense gaze.

Harry took a deep breath and opened the package. Inside, the only contents were a thick scroll of parchment and something that looked like a small stone ashtray. He removed them and unrolled the parchment. It appeared blank except for a few lines of instruction at the top.

_This portion of the late Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’s last will and testament is meant for Harry James Potter and will be received only in the latter’s presence with whomsoever he chooses to attend. To review the contents of this bequeathing, Mr. Potter must state his full name whilst tapping his wand upon the page. Further, he must sign his full name on the line below and deposit one drop of blood, freely given, next to it._

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Harry followed the instructions. As soon as a drop of blood from his pricked fingertip splashed on the page, the script vanished and the stone ashtray began to glow. A small, ghost-like image of Dumbledore appeared above it, much like a miniature Pensieve, Harry realized with a jolt. His eyes tingled with sudden tears as the image began to play its recorded message. On the parchment, flowing script in the late Headmaster’s sparkling green ink appeared as he spoke.

“To my dear young friend, Harry Potter,” Dumbledore spoke kindly, just as if they were having tea at one of their private lessons the year before. “I leave a few items that I hope will help you in your quest and some paltry advice from an old man who has lived too long. First, I leave you a home; one that I hope you will come to love even as I did. It is what I call my ‘personal cottage,’ a small property at St. John-by-the-sea that I use as my refuge. It is only accessible to you and Somber at the moment and it requires both of you in order to change the wards and allow others to enter. I trust that the two of you will work together on this matter.”

Harry could have sworn that, even in miniature, Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

“All of the contents of the cottage are yours. I trust that you will use them wisely. And finally, Harry, while you are not related to me through any direct blood, I have often felt that you are as close to me as one of my own children. I could hope that the feeling was reciprocated, but I have made many, many mistakes where you are concerned, dear boy, and I understand that I may not have that privilege. What I do now is not an attempt to rectify those mistakes, but rather an act of love. I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, name you, Harry James Potter, as an heir to the Dumbledore name and as such you shall be called Lord Harry James Potter-Dumbledore before all of the Wizarding World.”

He paused before continuing. “It’s mostly hogwash, of course, this business about being a ‘lord.’ It gives you some little power in the Wizarding World—not nearly as much power as you have won yourself even thus far in your short life—and you don’t even need to include the Dumbledore name in your everyday use unless you wish to. Mostly, it is a legal way to show that you are welcome in the Dumbledore home and family—my family. Harry, I want you to know that this was not a spontaneous decision. Indeed, it has been brewing in my mind for quite some time and when circumstances intervened to make me uncertain whether you would accept this gift from me, I chose to give it to you anyway under circumstances you couldn’t refuse! That being said, please be aware that my death was not entirely unexpected; in fact, certain events occurred to make it clear to me and one other that it was nothing less than inevitable.

“Enough prattling. Stay true and honest to yourself and remain close to your friends and family. Don’t lose those very things that give you power over Voldemort and you will succeed. You have grown into a fine young man and I only wish that I could watch you grow into the man I know you will become. I love you, Harry, and I bid you farewell until we see each other again in the distant future.”

The image dimmed and vanished while the stone ashtray grew dark again. The flowing script on the parchment stopped with Dumbledore’s signature, but charts and lists soon appeared below it with what appeared to be an update to Harry’s Gringotts account. He saw that he had access to his family vault now, as well as two additional, smaller vaults in the Black and Dumbledore names. He was now the single owner of a rather large fortune, if he interpreted the numbers correctly. There were also lists and lists of the items that had come into his inheritance within all three vaults—glancing over them, he saw artworks and weaponry as well as magical items and several properties, among them Godric’s Hollow and St. John-by-the-sea. He had stocks in companies across the globe, both magical and muggle.

The sheer amount of information was simply overwhelming and on top of the emotional repercussions of seeing the Headmaster, Harry could only pile the documents off to the side and promise himself to look through them later with a helpful law book on hand. He sat at the table and stared down at the wood grain while stroking Fawkes’ breast feathers.

Somber made a strange noise and Harry looked over to see him pawing through the stack of parchment he had received from Gringotts. The black cat gave him a wide-eyed look that seemed to say, “This is all _yours?_ Who in their right mind would give all this to _you_?” Harry felt a sudden surge of dislike toward the animal.

“Impressive, isn’t it? I’m probably the richest wizard my age,” Harry mocked. “Too bad I only get money when my friends and family die.” His voice cracked. “As if a load of galleons means a thing when all I want is to have them back.” Harry stood up from the table abruptly and left the cottage to sit on a rock by the cliff. Now that the suspense from the morning was gone, he felt tired and drained. The injuries he had acquired at the Dursley’s all seemed to remind him of their existence at once and his whole body throbbed. He felt chilled and his mind brooded on Dumbledore’s comforting messages from the past two days.

Fawkes soared above him, enjoying the freedom of the open air and the forest. On a whim, Harry raised his arm when the phoenix wheeled directly overhead and Fawkes landed with a great flapping of wind that blew his hair back. His arm nearly buckled and he almost toppled over while he struggled to hold the bird’s weight. The phoenix’s sharp talons bit into his arm as Fawkes sidled up to his shoulder and he suddenly remembered the strange dragonhide sleeves that Charlie had sent him. They would certainly protect him from Fawkes’ claws. He suddenly had a lot of questions to ask the second oldest Weasley when he saw him again.

Harry stayed out by the sea for hours. He watched Fawkes fly and explored the forest near his new home, feeling out the edges of the wards around him. He had much to think about. Dumbledore’s words had confirmed that there was more to his death than it seemed, just as Harry had suspected, and Harry was determined to discover exactly what had happened that night on the astronomy tower. Even though he had been there, watching the events unfold before his horrified eyes, it was beginning to occur to him that he had seen something very different than what was actually taking place. It wouldn’t surprise him if he had seen exactly what Dumbledore had wanted him—and others—to see, and thus, make the conclusions that Dumbledore wanted him to make.

After the mind-numbing drudge of the Dursley’s, the events of the last two days were beginning to feel overwhelming. There were many things he had to arrange before the end of summer; including finding a trusted advisor to handle the legal ends of his inheritance, resuming training, contacting his friends, learning how to deal with his companions (which were obviously more than they appeared to be), and starting the quest for the final Horcruxes in earnest.

He went to bed early that night, feeling a bit under the weather. Sometime during the night, he developed a fever and woke up several times, alternately boiling hot and freezing cold. His dreams were dark and frightening, tumbling through his mind like leaves caught in a whirlwind, and he tossed and turned fitfully. In the early morning hours, he managed to wake up long enough to realize that he had somehow fallen ill, but he was lost to the dreams before he could realize the implications. Time lost all meaning.

There were some times that he could tell that he was dreaming. Images from his childhood or watching his parents in the Mirror of Erised were things he recognized as memories. Other things, like Snape mopping his brow or feeding him soups and potions, he knew to be complete delusions. But most of the time, it was impossible to distinguish reality from fevered dreams—visions of Voldemort’s activities, Vernon raising his fist to punch him, Snape raising from the darkness to attack him, Wormtail sniveling at a snake’s tail… at times the fear was too much to bear and he shouted or lashed out in response. He whimpered and cried and rolled into a ball to protect his bruised and battered organs.

There were good times, too, peaceful times. Times when he was so tired that he drifted in an aimless fog. He encountered his parents, Sirius, and Dumbledore and spoke with them. He studied quietly in front of the large hearth in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione and Ron. He laid in cool sheets and let his weak, fevered body be wiped down with a damp cloth. Afterwards, a clean cloth would be placed over his forehead and a hand would touch his head briefly. He was reminded of countless nights in the hospital wing with Madame Pomfrey bustling around him. He slept.

Harry was lost to the fever for over a week. He knew because when he woke up, tired and ravenously hungry but aware, he saw Somber tucked into a ball at the foot of his bed reading _The Daily Prophet_ and the date read August 10. He couldn’t help cursing when he understood the implications and Somber jumped. Fawkes trilled a relieved greeting from his perch near the window of Harry’s room.

“Bloody hell! Is it really the tenth?” Harry said out loud, wincing at the harshness of his voice. He collapsed back against the pillow. He tried to recall the events of the last week and only came up with half-remembered dreams and a quicksilver memory that hovered at the edge of his mind. “I must’ve been really sick. But it came on so quickly… I’m lucky to’ve made it through without— _What_ are you doing?”

He felt Somber walk up his body over the covers and poke his face directly into Harry’s. The cat’s eyes were wide and intent—barely blinking, much to Harry’s discomfort—as he stared into Harry’s before he sniffed and nosed Harry’s cheek and forehead. Harry shivered at the cool dampness, his memory sparking with familiarity but slipping away before he could concentrate on it. Finally the cat let out a snort and turned away. He stalked to the side of the bed, jumped off, and left the room. Harry stared after him in consternation.

“What’s up with him?” He said. Fawkes just chortled and flew over to conduct his own examination to assure himself of Harry’s health. This consisted of the bird standing on his bed and weaving his head back and forth, pecking at various parts of his body. Harry felt a tiny jolt of warmth and electricity every time he did so and slowly became aware that although he felt weak and tired, his body was completely healed. There were no bruises from kicks and beatings, no sprained wrists or swollen bumps on his head, no tender marks around his neck. Somehow, over the course of his illness, he had been healed.

“Huh,” he said to himself. He wondered if Fawkes had healed him somehow, though that didn’t explain why he had remained sick for ten days. The other option—more likely, he thought—was that his innate magic had finally kicked in to help him. It wouldn’t be the first time his wild magic had risen up to protect him from illness and neglect.

Eventually, he stood and hobbled to the loo on weak legs, desperate for a shower. After a long, hot soaking, he left in a billow of steam and changed into some of his clothes from his new trunk. He still hadn’t had time to unpack. Finally, he felt like he had shaken off the last of the strange illness that had come upon him. He decided that he should go about exploring his new home.

It was small but it had every amenity he could think of. There was even a fully stocked potions lab in the basement. On the table in the kitchen, there was a pile of letters from concerned friends and Order members, each getting progressively more frantic and worried as they begged him to tell them where he was. He quickly responded with a short letter to Remus (who would pass it along to the rest of the Order) and Ron and Hermione, assuring them that he was safe in a place Dumbledore had provided for him. To his friends, he explained that no one could come to where he was right now, but he would visit them soon.

If he was honest with himself, he could admit that he just wanted to be alone for a while. He had a lot of things to worry about and he wasn’t sure how he felt about all of them. He didn’t need his friend’s distractions right now.

From the kitchen, Harry moved on to the sitting room, where a muggle telly and bookshelves filled with magic and muggle fiction novels lined the walls. Harry couldn’t help but smile a little at Dumbledore’s obvious eccentricity. Once he got to the Headmaster’s private study, however, he found that he could barely enter long enough to glance at the desk. From the state of the desk, it looked like he had just gotten up for a cup of tea in the middle of working. It was too soon and Harry’s emotions were too raw. He had to leave the house to the fresh sea air to escape.

Under the shadow of a tall tree, Harry watched the waters swell and ebb, taking deep breaths and clearing his mind of all thought. The scratch of claws against bark made him turn and he saw Somber crouched on a limb far above his head. The cat stared at him unblinkingly for a long moment before curling his lip back from his teeth in what looked remarkably like a sneer.

“Oh, bugger off,” Harry muttered. “Like you’ve never had anyone die before.” He turned and walked away, following the path leading away from the cottage and through the forest. A surprisingly heavy weight landed on his shoulder and sharp claws dug in while Somber yowled demandingly in his ear. Shouting in surprise, Harry wheeled about, trying to dislodge his unwanted passenger, but the cat wasn’t going anywhere. Harry stopped and turned his head to glare and Somber glared back, ears flattened and growling.

“You’re a demon cat, aren’t you? Dumbledore sent me a demon cat after he died. Why am I not surprised?” Harry grumbled. That earned him a swipe on the cheek, claws extended. “OW! Gerroff, you bloody horror! Tetchy little princess, aren’t you?” That earned him another swipe. “Fine! _Fine_. I get it. Look, I’ll treat you with respect if you treat me with respect, all right? That means no pouncing from the shadows, no poking holes in me with your claws, and no screeching in my ear. Got it? Don’t glare at me; I _know_ you can understand me.”

The cat looked away from him silently, but Harry thought he felt the claws loosen up. He continued walking, reflecting on how animals seemed to prefer to ride on his shoulder more often than not these days. Those dragonhide sleeves were definitely a good idea. He felt the cool shiver that meant they had passed through the wards surrounding Dumbledore’s—now his, he reminded himself—property; ones to ward off inquisitive muggles like at the Quidditch World Cup, he supposed. On his shoulder, Somber tensed slightly.

“Yeah, we just passed through the wards," Harry said. “I’m assuming Dumbledore put them up for privacy. You heard how he called this place his ‘personal cottage.’ But I’ll bet that he went down to the village every once in a while, at least. He loved people too much not to, and he was a nosy old coot besides. I wanted to check it out as well; see if it’s a wizarding town.”

Yet again, he found himself talking to the cat as if he was another human. He didn’t even talk to Fawkes this much (probably because the phoenix seemed to be able to hear his thoughts most of the time, anyway). There was just something about Somber that seemed familiar and Harry had a definite sense that he could trust the shadow cat with anything. It didn’t help that the cat reacted to his words with about as much expression as any human Harry had met.

Somber batted at Harry’s cheek (claws retracted, thankfully) to get his attention and when the boy turned his head to look at him, the cat nosed his glasses and patted at Harry’s scar with his paw, then cocked his head with a flat stare as if stating the obvious. “What are you going to do about those, you idiot?” He seemed to ask.

“Er, I suppose a disguise wouldn’t hurt if it _is_ a wizarding village. I don’t want people to know I’m here.” Harry thought for a moment and took off his glasses, tapping them with his wand and whispering a transfiguration spell. His distinctive round frames became thin and rectangular. He tapped his scar and cast a Notice Me Not spell—magic didn’t actually work very well on the curse scar, but it would work temporarily. He tapped near his eyes and they changed to a dull brown. Finally, he changed his hair color to a brown so light that it was almost blonde to complete the look.

“It’s rough and patchy, but it’ll do in a pinch,” Harry said, shrugging at Somber’s stare.

As soon as Harry entered the village, he could tell that there was no trace of wizards around. He couldn’t say exactly what made him so sure; he just was. There was no feeling of magic in the air, no lingering spell residues, no suspicious shops or walls that the muggles couldn’t see. The people didn’t look like wizards either: no odd, eccentric dress, no surreptitious wand held in a sleeve, no cloaks or pointed hats. Above all, these people didn’t have the pinched, haunted look of a people at war who expected Voldemort and his legions of Dementors to fall upon them at any second.

Once Harry realized this, he felt as if a large weight was lifted off of his shoulders and he could finally breathe. No one knew about wizards or dragons here, no one knew who Harry Potter was. Their biggest problem was wild animals getting into their garbage or taxes. It was… refreshing. Liberating.

There were not many people out on the street, but when he noticed that they were all giving him looks he realized that he still had to be cautious. St. John-by-by-the-Sea was obviously a small village and a stranger in their midst would be immediately noticeable—especially a stranger with a menacing-looking cat on his shoulder. Harry poked at said cat.

“Get off,” he hissed under his breath. “We’re too conspicuous!” The cat gave him a look that seemed to say, “And you just noticed this now?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


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